


Cure

by lacemonster



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, M/M, Medical Procedures, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27819862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: After a series of bombings in Gotham, Dick finds himself in an isolated bunker with Bruce. Bruce, injured in the bombings, has to place his life in Dick's hands. As Gotham changes around them, Dick and Bruce revisit their long past, wondering if the memories will help them set things right or say goodbye.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 17
Kudos: 133
Collections: Dick Grayson Fic Exchange 2020





	Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SamSnak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamSnak/gifts).



> I'm so sorry for the wait! Special thanks to withthekeyisking for being my beta reader!
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this, SamSnak! Thanks for the prompts!

There was a balcony hanging over the alleyway. Two people were sitting outside and drinking beer, watching Gotham burn. Dick could just barely make out their conversation, his ears otherwise filled with Bruce’s rasping breaths. Dick’s racing heart began to accelerate ever faster. If anyone saw Batman and Nightwing, especially in the shape they were in, they would point it out. They’d shout, take videos, create a clamor—and the last thing Dick needed in this crucial moment was a distraction.

Dick couldn’t afford to slow down, stop, or hide. He felt the stick of Bruce’s blood on his skin, the press of his rising and falling chest against his back, and knew that all he could do was carry on and hope that they wouldn’t be spotted under anyone’s nose.

He hurried his steps the best that he could, even as his body screamed at him in agony. The burden of carrying a man that was over six feet and two hundred pounds had long weighed on him. Every muscle in his back and thighs ached and quivered. Still, Dick pushed himself, trying to hide the strain of his own breaths, ignoring the heat and sweat that was collecting beneath his suit. _Move, damn it. Keep moving._

Something fell from the sky and bounced in front of Dick’s path, forcing him to a halt. Dick gritted his teeth at the shot of pain that travelled up his back as he stumbled to a stop, nearly dropping Bruce in the process. The loud clang and glint of metal had scared Dick—until he made out the shape of the beer can as it rolled into the next building. Bruce let out a low, distant groan, and Dick felt a flare of anger so strong that he could scream. But he stuffed his feelings down. They were so close to the safehouse, so close.

“Hey, is someone down there?”

No time to stop. Dick hurried his steps again, thankful for the shadows that swallowed them.

“Hang in there, B,” Dick said. His throat was dry, he could barely breathe. His body felt sluggish and heavy, aches burned through his muscles all the way down to the bone. He wasted his energy to speak anyways, even though he knew his answer would be silence. The answers had always been silence. But it had always been Dick’s role to fill it, to provide encouragement and hope, even when the fear threatened to swallow them both. Dick needed to speak, now more than ever. “We’re almost there. I promise. We’re going to get you out of this. It’s just—“

“—a scratch,” Bruce said, pulling his arm away from Alfred. 

“You always say that,” Dick piped in. The boy was perched on top of a table. His feet couldn’t reach the ground, so the pixie boots swung back and forth in the air. When Dick raised his brow, the green domino mask lifted with it. “But it’s never _just_ a scratch.”

“I have to agree with Master Dick,” Alfred said. He sighed. “Come now, if it’s just a scratch, then there’s no reason to hide it.”

The butler’s stern gaze bore into Bruce—naturally, both Alfred and Dick had seen through his guise.

Bruce clenched his jaw and said nothing. Instead, he silently pulled out of the sleeves of his uniform, letting the upper half of the garment pool at his waist. Alfred immediately took his arm, clicking his tongue as he examined it.

“Interesting, no scratch. This, however, seems quite nasty.”

Bruce grinded his teeth as two thumbs pressed particularly hard in the tender, bruised flesh of his forearm.

“You’re never a good sport, are you, Alfred?” Bruce said, voice growling from the back of his throat.

Alfred just gave Bruce one measured look before finally relinquishing the arm. He left, seeming satisfied that he was proven correct in his suspicions, but still not entirely happy about the matter. He calmly walked over to the cabinets, rifling through the medical supplies. Bruce’s gaze fell back down on his arm. The skin was marked with purples and blacks. He rubbed his arm with his hand, trying to soothe the stinging pain that still lingered there.

His eyes happened to flicker upwards, where he found Dick watching him quietly with a thoughtful expression. Dick had also been staring at his arm. Upon feeling the weight of Bruce’s gaze, their eyes locked, but only for a moment. Bruce frowned. The way that Dick suddenly shied away was so unlike him.

“Well, at least this isn’t like the January incident,” Bruce said. He was speaking to Alfred, but he was raising his voice so Dick would listen.

The butler gave a long, heavy sigh.

“Oh, yes. Thank goodness it was only your arm and not your ribs being crushed under a giant humanoid reptile that cleverly calls himself ‘Killer Croc’,” Alfred said dryly. He walked past them, setting down a set of compression bandages on the table next to Bruce. “I’ll be back. It seems like we’re low on inventory since your last ‘scratch’. I’ll have to check the storage room.”

Bruce listened as Alfred’s footsteps faded into the distance. What followed was a heavy silence. Bruce turned to Dick, who was staring at nothing. The boy’s brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched. Bruce could imagine what he was thinking. Maybe he was angry at Bruce for hiding it. Maybe he was angry at himself that Bruce was injured at all. 

Bruce wanted to reassure him. _It’s just a scratch. At least this isn’t like the January incident._ Dick wasn’t there for all of Bruce’s sacrifices. They hadn’t met yet when Bruce decided to leave his home and travel across the globe, paying blood and sweat to hone his skills. They didn’t know each other in that long, hard first year as Batman. The bruises hurt, but it was far from his worst injuries. Bruises and cuts were small prices to pay for Gotham’s safety.

But telling him this wouldn’t have changed Dick’s feelings. Bruce knew that because he would have had that same pout on his face if the roles had been reversed.

Bruce reached for the bandages. That’s when Dick’s head finally began to trail in his direction. As Bruce began to wind the bandages up his arm, that’s when Dick finally pushed himself off the table and approached him.

“Wait. I’ll do it,” he said.

Bruce’s hands slowed to a stop. Dick took over, carefully coiling the bandage around Bruce’s arm. Bruce watched him, studying those deft hands as they worked.

“You don’t need to help me.”

“You can’t do it with one hand. ‘Sides, it’s the least I could do,” Dick mumbled, still pouting.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dick said nothing, his hands still moving. Bruce sighed.

“Dick,” Bruce said in a low voice. Dick ignored him, continuing. Bruce sighed heavier this time. With more force, “Dick.”

Dick finally stopped and looked at him. His eyes were unusually dark.

“It’s not your job to protect me. It’s my job to protect you.”

Dick said nothing. His hands were tethered to Bruce’s arm by the bandage. Bruce could sense the way his hands trembled. Bruce pulled his arm back, finishing the job. Dick’s expression only seemed to sour further. Bruce breathed slowly, trying to find the right words.

“This is nothing serious. Don’t let it cloud you,” Bruce said. At that, Dick’s morose expression suddenly turned agitated.

“Then why lie about it?” Dick said. His words grew rushed with his rage. “You said you were fine. But you weren’t—because of me. I’m the one that messed up the timing. If I had gotten to the controls in time, that machine wouldn’t have slammed into your arm, and then—“

“It’s too late, Dick,” Bruce said. Dick opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. Bruce clenched his jaw, realizing there was nothing he could say to reassure Dick. If the two of them had one thing in common, it was that they were both quick to blame themselves. “This is the choice I make every time I put on the suit. When I go out there, I never know what’s going to happen. I have to resign to the fact that I could be injured, that I could…”

Bruce slowed. Dick looked up at him questioningly, his intense eyes daring Bruce to finish that sentence. Bruce did not. He straightened his back and continued.

“This is why we have to be careful when we go out. This is why I’m always teaching you proper tool-use and safety protocol. This is why we prepare every detail for every situation. But sometimes, even with all of the planning in the world, mistakes happen. Injuries are inevitable, but we can’t sulk over them. When we hurt, we have to get up and keep fighting. That’s what makes us unique, Dick. That’s what makes us a team. We’re hurt people, Dick, but we keep going forward.”

“What if we can’t?” Dick said quietly, gaze falling to the floor.

Bruce paused at that, his heart sinking at those words. He waited for Dick to elaborate. When he didn’t, Bruce leaned forward in his seat, drawing closer to Dick, trying to seek out his eyes. When Dick continued to face away, Bruce finally put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

It took a moment for Dick to answer. When those blue eyes finally looked at him, they were big and wide.

“What if I let you down again?”

Dick had never felt more frustrated with the safehouse’s security system. When he tried to scan his fingerprint, the machine buzzed at him. Dick huffed and readjusted Bruce on his back, then tried again, making sure the pad of his index finger was set correctly. The machine chimed in response. The final safeguard was unlocked, the doors sliding open, and Dick nearly sighed in relief. He hurried inside, placing Bruce on the nearest chair.

Once Bruce was set down, Dick immediately felt a wave of relief go through his muscles. He unrolled his spine—which had been hunched the entire time he had carried Bruce—and felt a pop in his lower back.

For the first time since Dick had pulled Bruce out from under the destroyed building, he finally got a good look at his friend and mentor. The only thing propping Bruce up in the chair was his arm slung over the nearby table. His head was lolled forward, but what Dick could see past the cowl was nothing but red. The blood dripped into his lap. His uniform was torn, blood pooling into the ripped seams. Just looking at him made Dick’s stomach turn with fear and disgust.

When Bruce barely moved, Dick’s heart started to race. He sucked in a breath, trying not to panic. He knelt beside Bruce’s chair, lifting up his face, his heart skipping when he saw the closed lids beneath the lenses of the cowl.

“Come on, Bruce, wake up.” Dick’s fingers pressed tightly into Bruce’s face, shaking him a little. “Bruce, wake up.”

Bruce made a low sound, the same noise he would make whenever Dick used to rudely wake him from his catnaps—back when Dick was too young to understand that sleep was more precious than playing games for an adult as busy as Bruce. The sound of Bruce’s voice was enough to renew Dick’s hope. He just needed to keep Bruce awake long enough for him to get help. It was time to be that annoying little boy again.

“We made it, Bruce. We made it. Just stay with me. I got you.”

Bruce’s head tilted up by the merest increment, his arm stirring closer to the edge of the table. His meager movements were enough to reassure Dick. Dick quickly got back on his feet.

“Computer, call the Cave,” Dick said. 

The screens along the walls came to life. On one of the screens, Dick caught the newscast, showing images of all the explosions across the globe. Dick stared long enough just to catch glimpses of the Justice League, all of whom seemed preoccupied with handling each disaster. Dick immediately tore his gaze away. But even though he looked away, the constant ringing of the computer-call filled the bunker, reminding Dick that no one was coming to his rescue anytime soon.

“It’s going to be okay,” Dick said. He spent his whole life swinging without a net to catch him. All he needed was him and his partner. 

Dick rolled Bruce’s chair to the medical room, which was a bit too quaint. Dick had brought them to the nearest safehouse that he could, a small building in a quiet Gotham neighborhood, an area with very little crime. The location lacked many of the things the other safehouses had; the medical room was nothing more than a curtained corner filled with some basic equipment. 

Dick slipped his arms between Bruce and the chair, getting a hold of him. His muscles were trembling, screaming at Dick to not lift Bruce again.

Dick counted to three under his breath and lifted. His arms and shoulders and back all burned in protest. But with one successful heave, Dick lifted Bruce from the chair onto the exam table. Afterwards, Dick stumbled into the side of the table. It felt good to lean against it for support. He looked down at Bruce’s form on the table and thought of how badly he wished to just lay on that table next to him. But now wasn’t the time.

Dick started toward the medical cabinets, but something on the floor caught his eye. His steps slowed when he realized he was dragging his feet through a stream of blood. Dick quickly looked back at Bruce. One arm hung limply over the edge of the table. The other was crossed over his torso. Dick looked closer, noticing the way the gray fabric began to darken, starting from the center and slowly blossoming outwards.

Panic seized Dick. How long had he been bleeding like that? Did he reopen a wound?

All the while, the phone kept ringing. Each trill drove straight into Dick’s chest.

“Damnit, Cave, pick up!” Dick screamed, but he was yelling into a void. Justice League wasn’t an option, Alfred wasn’t an option, Dick grasped for names. “Computer, call Batgirl! Robin! Anyone!”

The ringing stopped. The computer was attempting to connect to the commlinks, which had been down all night. Dick wasn’t expecting anything. But then to his surprise, the ringing suddenly resumed. 

His heart lurched forward the moment he heard a click.

“Nightwing, you there?” a voice echoed over the speakers.

“Tim,” Dick said, so surprised that he forgot the moniker. “I couldn’t get ahold of anyone—“

“Because our commlink was being rerouted to an empty line. I _just_ got mine back online. We need to get everyone else’s working again if we have any chance of forming a plan—“

A plan. Dick closed his eyes. He’s been so absorbed by Bruce’s injuries that he hadn’t been thinking about the city’s wellbeing or what he was going to do about the attacks. He spoke up, cutting Tim off in the middle of his words.

“Listen, I have a problem here. I have B at the safehouse in Oldtown. He was caught in the explosion.”

“Seriously?” Tim hesitated before asking, “How bad is he?”

“Bad. I need to get Alfred or Leslie here.”

“Nightwing, I don’t… I don’t know what to say, the entire city is locking down, it’s not easy getting around. Especially in your location. Everyone in Oldtown is trying to evacuate to the mainland. Traffic on Kane Bridge is backed up.”

“I know that,” Dick said. He realized too late how sharp his voice was. He scrubbed at his face with his hands. He was ready to apologize but Tim continued, having taken no offense.

“I don’t think it's going to be possible to get through to the Cave unless I can fix these commlinks.” There was a short cessation as Tim tried to think.”Could you try getting him out of uniform and into a hospital?”

“No, the explosion took out the nearest clinic. Besides, I can’t move him anywhere. It took everything I had to just get him here. He’s bleeding all over the place and I’m afraid to move him. I can do what I can to stop it but it’s not going to be enough. I need supplies, I need a doctor—“

“I know, I’m sorry, just… stay calm, stop the bleeding. I’ll do my best to get someone there, it’s just—if I’m being honest, it’s chaos out here, and I haven’t gotten updates on where anyone is since the bombs went off. I’m going to do what I can, you know, but if everyone is tied up—“

“Just do what you can,” Dick said. He quickly added, “Thanks, Robin.”

Tim said nothing more, the speakers clicking as he ended the call. The room felt eerily silent without another person to talk to. Dick took in a deep breath. He trusted Tim. He knew that Tim would do whatever he could to get help. And as for the city, Dick would just have to trust the others.

Dick turned to Bruce, who was bleeding on the table. Already, his mind was raking every bit of medical knowledge he had.

“I can do this,” Dick whispered to himself, joining Bruce’s side at the table. “I can do this.” 

He started by taking off Bruce’s clothes. On the sides of the cowl, there were small buttons to press to avoid getting gassed. The sequence of the buttons had never changed. Dick pressed on the first and third, the cowl easily slipping off of Bruce’s head without any defense mechanisms going off. He took in Bruce’s appearance. The man’s eyes were sunken. His face had lost all color, save for the bottom half which was red with blood. Dick kept going. The cape simply needed to be unhooked. Dick let it drape over the table.

“Alright, Bruce. Sit up. Work with me here,” Dick said, trying to push Bruce up. The man was dead weight. Dick’s sore muscles were finally beginning to take its toll—he grunted, unable to get Bruce’s crumpled body to fold up. Dick growled between his teeth. “Come on, Big Guy. Get up.”

Dick’s heart stopped when Bruce suddenly cried out in pain. Dick rarely heard such sounds from him. His own heart twisted at the noise. He had his share of nasty injuries over the years. Head injuries, busted knee caps, fractured bones. Dick wasn’t sure if he ever looked as bad as Bruce did now, if he had, he wasn’t conscious enough to remember it.

“I know, it hurts, I’m the worst, I’m sorry—“

With a surge of strength, he got Bruce to sit up, blocking out the pained moans that entered his ear. Dick felt awful, but he couldn’t afford to be patient. Once he got Bruce up, he removed the man’s bracers and gloves. Then, as carefully as he could, he began to peel the suit off.

The suit was sticky with blood, clinging to Bruce’s form. Dick clenched his jaw, knowing well that he could potentially be reopening some scars. Bruce was uncooperative throughout the entire process. A heaviness began to weigh on Dick the further he went on. Bruce wasn’t acting right, he didn’t look right. Dick desperately tried to climb over his mounting fear but more and more, the dread sunk in.

Once Bruce was shirtless, Dick got a good look at him.

The gash in the man’s stomach was red and glistening. It sickened Dick to look at it. He had seen men torn in half. Had seen his own parents break their skulls and spines. Sometimes he was unaffected by blood, but once in a while, it hit him. Made him feel lightheaded and faint. Made the whole room spin. Dick paused for a moment, closing his eyes, breathing in.

He reminded himself that he had done this before. He reminded himself of that over and over, his mind drifting backwards.

Dick inhaled deeply, slowly, trying to calm his nerves. He was muttering encouragements to himself, his hands flexing repeatedly. All of this to prepare himself, mentally and physically.

Bruce should have been more understanding, but his arm was fractured and his thigh was in agonizing pain.

“Robin. No more stalling. Do it. _Now_.”

A sound came from the back of Dick’s throat, his body hunching over. He was gagging and he hadn’t even done anything yet. Bruce should have been understanding, he should have, but he could feel the splintered edges of the wood ripping into his already torn flesh and the pain was so great he was seeing double.

Before Bruce could snap Dick out of it, Dick moved of his own accord. Despite the pale face and shaky arms, he willed himself to wrap his hands around the stake in Bruce’s thigh.

“On the count of three—“

Bruce’s patience was gone.

“Damn it, boy, just do it—“

Dick yanked the splintered wood out of Bruce’s leg, a trail of hot blood following the exit. Bruce felt a spike of pain shoot through his body. Bruce growled between his teeth, pounding his fist along the concrete beside him. Dick’s words rushed to say sorry, are you okay, I was just doing what you told me to do—but Bruce cut him off. No time for any of that.

“It's fine. You did good,” Bruce said, clutching the gushing wound with his one working hand.

“ _Good_? Are you crazy?” Dick said, voice practically shouting. “You’re bleeding everywhere!”

“Bandages. _Now_.”

Dick tossed the bloody wood aside, reaching into his utility belt. His trembling hands fumbled through the pouches. Bruce clenched his jaw, face wincing with every throb of pain, all as he impatiently waited. Dick was right, Bruce really was bleeding everywhere. In truth, Bruce knew he wasn’t doing well. When the criminal pushed him over the walkway, it had happened so quickly that he barely had time to dread the fall. But now that he was sitting on a pile of broken crates, punctured by splintered wood and nails and unable to move his shattered arm, the reality of the situation was beginning to dawn on him.

But he wasn’t too worried.

He had Dick.

Dick helped him bandage up the wound. This, Dick was used to. As he coiled the bandages around Bruce, his face fell into a calm. Once they were done, Dick moved to help Bruce to his feet.

“Here, wrap your arm around me,” Dick said.

The uncertainty that was there a while ago had slipped away so effortlessly. It was moments like this that Bruce saw glimpses of Dick becoming a man. It wasn’t just in how he was tall enough to wrap an arm around comfortably, or strong enough to help support him, but in the way that he took charge. Bruce leaned on Dick as they exited the factory, each step bringing a fresh wave of hurt.

It was a long way to the exit. In the distance, Bruce could see where they had parked the batmobile. He tried to imagine what it would have been like to crawl from the crash back to the cave and he realized that he might not have made it out of there in one piece, if it wasn’t for Dick. From the corner of his eye, Bruce watched Dick. He remembered the first time they met, on that tragic day of the Flying Graysons. The powerlessness he had felt as he watched John and Mary fall. It had always haunted him that he had never been able to protect Dick, the same as he had failed to protect his own parents.

But more and more, as the years went on, Bruce found himself depending on Dick’s help. It was Dick protecting him, saving him, again and again.

“You okay?” Dick asked.

At first, Bruce wondered if Dick had caught him staring. But Dick’s gaze was still turned forward, concentrating on getting Bruce back home.

He wasn’t asking because he knew Bruce was watching him. He was just asking to make sure that Bruce was still with him.

Dick’s gloves were coated in blood, the droplets rolling down his arms. He had followed his learned procedures as he remembered them, disinfecting and closing the wound. The room was a mess, the neatly organized drawers overflowing with spilled supplies, the procedural table covered in pinks and reds. Dick did everything he was trained to do, but uncertainty clouded him. His mind travelled to every war story he heard from family, friends, and teammates about hemorrhages, but he lacked the knowledge to properly recognize it.

Was the disinfection enough? Had he stopped the bleeding properly? Were Bruce’s arteries or organs damaged? Would he need a transfusion? There was nothing Dick could use to check Bruce’s vitals and he lacked the experience to trust his own judgment.

_If it was really bad, he would have died already. He has a chance. He’ll make it through._

Bruce was unresponsive, laying on the table. He was still breathing, his chest stuttering with every staggered breath. Dick hovered over him, hoping his work had been enough but at the same time, certain that he could do more. That he must do more.

All the while, the news was playing over the speakers. Dick heard the sounds of sirens outside. Everything was burning and Dick didn’t know what to do. He should have been out there, helping, but he was tethered to that place.

A chime interrupted the clamor.

“Computer, pick up,” Dick said, leaping out of his chair. He was expecting Tim’s face on the nearby monitor. Instead, it was Oracle’s. It wasn’t who he expected, but the revelation made him all the more excited. Communications were back up. “Oracle, are you okay?”

“Nevermind me. How’s Batman?” she said.

“Not good. I think I stopped the bleeding but he looks terrible. Were you and Tim able to get ahold of anyone?”

Barbara’s expression was unusually serious, her mouth frowning.

“Listen, Nightwing, I know you’re tied up but I have urgent news. I think there’s going to be another attack.”

“What?” Dick said, stomach sinking.

“There’s a small pattern to all of the attacks. The bombings go off quarterly in a cycle across the globe, striking the home cities of the Justice League. The last attacks before Gotham were in Central City and Star City, in that order. Central City had its second bombing half an hour ago. Star City just reported theirs.”

That gave them fifteen minutes, not counting the time it spent them to talk. Dick frowned at that. They didn’t have a lot of time.

“Do you know where the next bombing is going to take place?”

“No, but I have a suspicion. Across the globe, the bombings first took out historical sites, with the second wave of bombings working to isolate those areas and prevent aid from coming in. Oldtown took the biggest hit from the first wave, so it’s safe to say that the bombers are working to trap people in that area. Oldtown sits between Gotham Bay and the river, so take out Kane Bridge and no one is going to be able to pass through traffic to get back to the mainland.” At that, the hard shell of her face began to slip away. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before looking at Dick and saying, “Robin told me that Batman was hurt and was in the Oldtown safehouse. But as soon as I figured out the pattern of the attacks, I had to report the information to GCPD. It was the only thing I could do to safely clear off the bridge and protect Gotham’s citizens. I’m sorry.”

Dick couldn’t breathe. If the bridge was closed off, that meant he and Bruce were virtually stuck. The nearest clinic had already been destroyed. Any option of getting Bruce to a hospital was already dismal, but was now impossible. His dismay must have shown on his face because Barbara quickly continued.

“It’s not completely hopeless, Dick. I was able to get ahold of Alfred. There’s nowhere for the batplane to land, so he is heading toward the docks. Batman’s speedboat could definitely get him there at a decent time.”

“There’s no surgical equipment here.”

“I’m aware. So is Alfred, he’s taking what he can and he’s prepared to take Batman on the trip back to the batcave. I think it’s too late to stop the attack on the bridge, we have to accept that. In the meantime, Dick, we need to be prepared for a third wave. I’m setting up a rendezvous point for you, Robin, Batgirl, and Huntress. I’ll send you the coordinates—“

“Babs, I can’t. I can’t leave him like this.”

“Nightwing, I’m sorry, but you have to. You have to leave and you have to do it fast. We need all the help we can get. If Gotham is attacked again—“

“You haven’t seen him, Babs. I have.”

“Alfred will be there shortly, he’s already on his way—“

“He might not make it back in time!” Dick said, raising his voice. Barbara looked taken aback at first, but then her brows lowered. “He can’t be left alone right now. He can’t.”

“Dick, I understand. But all of Gotham is in danger and we need to do whatever we can to minimize the damage,” Barbara said. She shook her head. “Do you think this is what he’d want?”

“Of course not, that’s why he’s dying! But do you honestly think that’s why I could leave him now?”

Babs looked ready to argue, but she paused, letting herself breathe. After a moment, she continued, her voice composed.

“It’s your choice, Dick. It’s a hard one. I’ll understand your decision either way. I’ll send you the coordinates just in case you change your mind.” Babs hesitated before adding, “I know he’s in good hands. Send him my best wishes.”

Dick saw a brief glaze across her eyes and his heart twisted with regret. Barbara had always been this way—she always focused on controlling chaos, prioritized the safety of the city over her personal feelings. She was better at expressing herself than Bruce, but they were both similar in the way that they’d sacrifice anything for the city, even if it meant personal sacrifice. 

And at the same time, he had only gotten to know her after years of working together. Working with Bruce, who was so important to them both.

“Babs, I’m sorry—“ he tried to say, but the feed had already clicked off. She had work to do.

Dick went back to Bruce, each step seeming heavier than the last. His heart was still racing from his conversation with Babs. The newsfeed had already resumed, echoing statements about the bridge evacuation and the anticipated attack. They were talking about all the fires, all the casualties.

Dick retook his seat next to Bruce. His head was bowed, staring down at his own sweat-drenched uniform. When Dick had heard about the first explosion, he had rushed to get his uniform on. He knew that Gotham was going to need his help. But he hadn’t seen a single hurt citizen that day, because he had been too focused on getting Bruce out of the building, on helping Bruce, saving Bruce.

Guilt began to gnaw at him. When had he lost his focus? When did his mission become so tied to this one man?

Bruce mumbled something. 

Dick might not have even heard him if he hadn’t happened to look up and catch Bruce’s lips moving. At first, Dick thought he was imagining it, shocked that the man was even speaking. But he was.

“Bruce?”

Bruce’s mouth moved again, inaudible. Dick’s heart lurched. He sprang forward, leaning in close, his body draped over the table. He hovered so close to Bruce’s face that he could feel his breath against his ear. 

“What is it, Bruce? What do you need? How can I help?”

Bruce’s voice rasped. Dick shifted his weight, hanging onto Bruce’s words, impatient.

“What is it?”

Bruce swallowed. Then spoke.

“Go.”

Bruce shouldn’t have been surprised when Dick appeared in his doorway. Bruce had explicitly told Alfred that he would not be accepting visitors, so it was only natural that Alfred would disobey his wishes. Bruce set down his book on his bedside table and tried to sit up, using his arms to push himself up. That’s when Dick held up his hands.

“There’s no need to move. You’ll kill yourself, if you haven’t already,” Dick said. He moved across the room, stealing the chair by the desk, and pulled up a spot next to Bruce.

For a long moment, the room was eerily silent. But Bruce felt he could already hear the long lecture playing out in Dick’s head. Bruce looked at him, noticing that he had changed his hair again. Bruce couldn’t really keep up with all the wardrobe changes in the past few months, years. Bruce’s gaze drifted, a sinking feeling weighing down on him. For once, Bruce couldn’t stand the way that Dick looked at him. The young man, approaching what had been Bruce’s prime years, looked down at Bruce’s broken body with a thoughtful, silent expression. Bruce sighed for him.

“You visited for a reason. If this is about the cowl, I’ve made my choice—“

“Stop right there,” Dick said, shooting him a sharp look. “The last thing I want to talk about is business. Believe me, I have nothing good to say about your decision to pass your life’s work to a total stranger, but it seems you already knew how I felt about it.” He shook his head, his mouth a thin line. He wouldn’t even look Bruce in the eye. “God, Bruce, you could have been paralyzed for life. You could have _died_.”

Dick paused suddenly, swallowing words that he wanted to say. But then his eyes grew furious again and he bared his teeth as he spat it out anyways.

“Sometimes I think that’s what you want.”

“He broke into the manor, Dick. What do you propose I should have done? Played dead?” Bruce said, narrowing his eyes.

“No, of course not,” Dick said, voice forceful. “I’m not blaming you! I’m just… scared for you, that’s all. What’s going to happen when your back recovers? _If_ you recover? Because I don’t trust that you’re going to let Jean-Paul keep the cowl. I don’t trust it at all.”

“I haven’t made a plan yet. I haven’t even had a chance to predict Bane’s next move.”

“But there will be a plan,” Dick said after a moment. He bowed forward in his chair, his hands clasped together so tightly that his knuckles went white. He breathed in. Then spoke, ever so softly, “Is there anyone that could stop you?”

Bruce knew what Dick meant.

_Am I enough to stop you?_

A silence swelled within the room, tense with disappointment. There was so much Bruce wanted to say to him. He thought so much about his own early years. The fearlessness he felt, the invincibility. It was all a bravado he had built up to justify putting himself in life threatening situations. 

He would have never been able to grapple with the guilt otherwise.

Over the years, it had grown harder to keep that self-centered attitude. Strange, how the tragedies and hardships in his life had also led him to such joys. Friendships, colleagues, a family. Dick. Bruce lacked the words to explain that as much as Batman was for himself, it was also for Dick. That as much as Bruce found himself wanting to survive and live for Dick, there was also a motivation to keep fighting and sacrifice everything to protect him. He had reached a point where he had spent more years with his found family than his blood family. Batman began as a mission to fight for justice, a tribute to his dead parents, but over the years that mission had blossomed. He wanted to make Gotham safe for the people he loved.

But he was hurting Dick. Dick was more than angry, he was grieving. And as Bruce stared down at his broken body underneath the sheets, he could understand why. He felt so ashamed. He was letting Dick down. His brother, his friend, his legacy. Someone who he loved so deeply, who he allowed to slide into the broken pieces of his being. It wasn’t just because he had failed as Batman, but how he spat in the face of a boy—a man—who had given so much just to keep Bruce alive. He had taken punches for him, had dressed his wounds, had picked him up after he had fallen again and again and again. 

Dick had been there, keeping him alive. Even in the smaller things, like giving him moments to look forward to. Birthdays, graduations, holidays, career changes. He had been there in moments where everything seemed hopeless and dark. Moments that felt so big, so deep, so endless, that Bruce never thought he’d crawl out of it. Moments where every day and night seemed too long and he wanted nothing more than to dig through the dirt and rest between his parents again. And the deep conversations they shared or the jokes that lightened the room or maybe even just a simple smile had pulled him out of those places every time, every single damn time, convincing him to keep going. To survive. To live.

How deeply ashamed Bruce felt that he repaid every one of those moments by throwing himself into danger again. By risking his life again. By ending up in this bed, beaten and broken. How deeply Bruce wanted to look at him and say, _I feel guilty every time I make you suffer. I don’t like hurting you._

But couldn’t. Because he was too damn ashamed.

“You know that I love you, right?” Dick said suddenly. His tone wavered, not because he was uncertain in what he was saying, but uncertain if he should be saying it at all.

“I know,” Bruce said.

And he did.

Dick’s lips parted, wanting to say more. He needed permission. He needed a sign. He wanted to elaborate, to spill everything, to explain every long glance and gentle touch that he disguised under friendliness.

He just needed one push.

But Bruce couldn’t give him that.

Bruce closed his eyes.

_I feel guilty every time I make you suffer._

_I don’t like hurting you._

Dick paused, trying to register what Bruce meant. In that moment, Dick heard the news feed playing in the background. A newscaster was speaking quickly, hurriedly. Finally, Dick looked over his shoulder, gazing at the massive monitor on the wall. He saw the fires on the screen. He read the news scrolling across the bottom.

The bridge was shutting down. People were evacuating.

Dick looked back at Bruce. Those cloudy blue eyes were shadowed underneath his drooping eyelids. He looked so distant. Every breath rasped from his throat, threatening to be the last. Dick felt a wave of grief sink into his body. He felt heavy. At the same time, he wanted to fight and scream. This was Batman. This was Bruce. He couldn’t die, not after everything. They had so much history and there was still so much to do.

It couldn’t end now. Not so unexpectedly. Not so ungratefully, on a bloody bed in a hidden safehouse with no one to thank him for his sacrifice.

Dick reached for the hand that was resting on Bruce’s chest. Dick couldn’t remember the last time he really held Bruce’s hand. It seemed that over the years, there hadn’t been a lot of touching or holding. Maybe it was just age or distance. But the truth was that Dick had been too ashamed. He had told himself long ago that he would never act on his feelings for Bruce. That he would never ruin what they had. He supposed, in the end, that he had ruined it anyways. His hand tightened around Bruce’s, and realizing how much he had missed just being able to do this—to just hold his hand without any other need or intention—was enough to make his eyes burn.

He wanted to hold on forever, but he knew that as impossible and unfair as it was, nothing could last that long. He learned that hard lesson at an early age, when he stood on that platform and waited for his parents’ hands to take his, but they never came. At first, he had felt shock. He thought of how many times they had defied death before, that it was impossible for them to be gone. Then he felt he had been robbed of every pivotal moment in his life without their presence. The birthdays, the graduations, the holidays, the career changes. And over time he had come to an acceptance, a gratefulness for the time they had together.

But it had been Bruce who had helped him through that time. Bruce, who was so private, but had been willing to open his home to Dick.

Could Dick really do it all over again—the shock, the anger, the healing—without Bruce there?

_Go._

His hand tightened around Bruce’s, making up for the man’s loose grip. Gotham was burning. There were people out there that were being robbed of their loved ones, too. What better way to honor Batman’s memory than to save the city he had sacrificed himself to protect?

And yet he couldn’t go.

Selfishly, desperately, he held on. He didn’t get to hold his parents’ hands one last time. How many nights had he dreamed that he had—in his deepest moments of hurt and shame—held onto them as they all fell together. But those nights were gone and as long as Dick could hold on, he would. Even if it was hopeless, even if all the work up until this point had been for naught, he was going to hold on.

“I’m not going to leave you alone,” Dick said, speaking around the lump swelling in his throat.

Bruce’s eyes kept lulling closed. Dick shook his hand, trying to keep him awake. _Just hold on. Hold on._ Dick clasped both hands over Bruce’s, holding him tight. His head bowed forward, resting against Bruce’s side.

Faintly, he felt a squeeze around his hand. Just a single pulse. Followed by a distant voice.

“You did good.”

Dick opened his eyes, his face still buried in Bruce’s side. In that closed space, he stared into the dark. Grief crawled up his throat, and yet, he found himself chortling.

“ _Good_? Are you crazy?” he whispered.

Red and blue flashing lights bounced off of the circus tents. Bruce walked along the dirt path, the gravel crunching beneath his dress shoes. He listened carefully, blocking out the sounds of police radios and witnesses being interviewed, until it all faded into the distance. Somewhere, he heard crying.

He found the boy sitting behind some boxes and stage equipment. The boy didn’t charge off like he had when they pulled him away from his parents. He looked too exhausted, his sobs more like hiccups now, his hair matted, his face flushed and covered with dried snot and tears.

Bruce crouched in front of him. Dick said nothing to him, just continued to stare at the ground, hiccuping.

“They’re looking for you,” Bruce said.

Dick said nothing.

“They’re taking your parents to the hospital.”

Dick’s face scrunched up. A breath stuttered in his throat.

“You’ll want to say goodbye.”

At that, Dick finally spoke.

“They won’t let me see them,” Dick said after some effort, choking around his breaths.

“Seeing them up close wouldn’t have changed anything. It won’t give you closure,” Bruce said.

Dick went back to hiccuping.

His eyes scanned over Dick. The boy had his arms wrapped around his folded knees. On a kneecap, the circus outfit was torn, the flesh scraped. Bruce wondered if Dick had gotten it when he slid in the dirt to see his dead parents or if it was from when he tripped and escaped from the circus workers. Bruce reached into his breast pocket, pulling out the handkerchief there. He passed it toward Dick.

“Here. Your knee is bleeding.”

Dick looked at it for a long moment. Bruce went ahead and gently wiped away the blood crawling down Dick’s shin. Dick then looked up at Bruce.

“Are you a doctor?” Dick asked.

“No, but my father was. Before he died,” Bruce said.

At that, Dick grew quiet, his arms wrapping tighter around his legs. Bruce finished wiping away what blood he could before getting back up.

“Come on. I’ll stay with you. Let’s get you healed up.”

He offered his hand. Dick stared at it for a moment, then took it. Bruce pulled him to his feet.

“Bruce.”

Bruce wasn’t answering. Dick feared he might have lost his opportunity for any final words, any well wishes, any goodbyes. For a brief window in time, they were able to exchange words, but now Bruce was unresponsive again. That little moment of relief now felt squandered. Dick shook Bruce again, tears now pooling at the corners of his eyes.

“Come on, Bruce. Stay with me. Wait for Alfred.”

But he knew. He knew Bruce was slipping away. He should have enjoyed the ride they had, but all Dick could think about was how he wished they had done more.

How he wished he had said more.

Dick sucked in his lip, grief and shame swelling in his chest. Bruce was hanging onto his last moment. It’d be wrong to make it about himself. Even so he had to say something. Something before it was too late.

“You know I love you, right?” Dick said.

Bruce wasn’t answering. His eyes were just barely open, gaze staring off into nothing. His breathing had slowed. His body was still.

“I won’t leave you alone. I’m with you,” Dick said.

Bruce’s eyes opened a little more, pupils travelling in Dick’s direction.

With some effort, Bruce breathed, “Always are.”

At that, the tears finally sprang. Dick nodded at once.

“Yes, always.”

Dick closed his eyes. He still had so much to say. So much to say that he couldn’t have possibly formed the thoughts into words, couldn’t have possibly conveyed every feeling. But he had said enough, he would have to make his peace with that.

He felt Bruce’s cold hand fall out of his and knew he had to make his peace.

There was a loud crash. 

It was so unexpected that Dick’s heart jumped. He spun around, eyes first landing on the crumpled metal door on the ground. Dick just now registered the flashing red lights on the monitor, the computer warning of an intruder. Dick then looked up, eyes landing on a familiar red and gold symbol.

“Sorry about the door, knocking didn’t work,” Clark said, striding over.

Dick’s head was spinning so fast that he faltered to speak. He stammered as Clark scooped Bruce off the table.

“You—Metropolis?”

“I finished up early. Saw Alfred when I was crossing the bay,” Clark said. He started walking back toward the exit. It took Dick’s brain a second to register that he should follow. He had to jog to keep up. Clark didn’t even glance in his direction as he asked, “Gotham Bay Medical?”

“No, it’s shut down, I think—I mean, it _is_ shut down—“

“Then I’ll take him to St. Luke’s on 33rd and East Troy.”

“But—Batman—the uniform—“

“Secret identity, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll still keep him decent. Wait here, Alfred’s going to meet you. Again, sorry about the door,” Clark said, and in a blink, he had taken off to the skies.

Dick stopped and watched them fly, still reeling over what had just happened.

“I mean, he just busted right through the door, I didn’t know he was coming at all. No one sent me a message or a sign or anything!”

“Mhm.”

“And he saw you there and he didn’t even panic. _I_ was panicking. But he was so calm. He couldn’t have been calmer.”

“Mhm.”

“I know he does it all the time. We all do. But it’s not often we’re on the receiving end of the whole ‘saving people’ part, you know? I’ve never really had the proper ‘never fear, Superman is here’ moment. And if I’m being honest—when you’re panicking and fucking _Superman_ shows up—it fucking _ruled_.”

“ _Hh_. Well, I will have to thank Clark when he stops by.”

Dick finally stopped blabbering, taking a good look at Bruce, who looked tired and a tad bit grumpy. Dick should have been exhausted too. After Clark took Bruce to the hospital, Dick took Alfred’s transportation back to the mainland. Thanks to Barbara’s coordination, Dick and his teammates were able to prevent a third wave of bombings. The rest of the night had been spent trying to aid citizens who were affected by the bombings. After their work was done, Dick had planned to go straight to the hospital to see Bruce, but Alfred forced him to get some sleep. 

Bruce had to undergo surgery and was still asleep by the time Dick arrived the next day. Bruce was hooked up to machines and lying in a bed that was not his. Still, Dick had never been so happy to see him. The excitement of their first conversation since that night had Dick both relieved and excited. Perhaps too excited, Dick realized as he watched Bruce’s groggy expression. He shrank back a little, fighting back the smile on his face.

Bruce was in rough shape, but Dick was just happy that he could still sit and have a conversation with him. He looked at Bruce, all bruised and bandaged, but still himself. He was real, he was alive, and Dick couldn’t have been more thankful. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I think you’ve done enough, Dick. Thank you.” Bruce turned his head on his pillow, looking at Dick. Dick felt pulled into that gaze, a stirring of emotions rising through his chest from the unusually tender look in Bruce’s eyes. “Truly.”

“No problem,” Dick said, clearing his throat. “I’m just… happy you’re here.”

“I know.”

“Listen, Bruce—“ Dick readjusted himself in his chair. He could think of many moments in his life that were set up like this. Him, sitting beside Bruce’s bedside, wanting to say the words he was too afraid to say. But after everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Dick knew it was time. For better or for worse, he needed to tell Bruce the truth. “I’m not sure how much you remember about that night, but I wanted to tell you—“

“I know, Dick,” Bruce said, and the soft tone of his voice indicated that he did. At that, Dick’s face warmed, his heart starting to race faster. But that heart sunk when Bruce said, “Not now.”

Dick straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t going to hold back. Not now. Not after everything.

“Yes, now. You almost died. I can’t keep hiding—“ Dick said, rushing to get the words in, but Bruce was already waving a dismissive hand, his dark brows deeply furrowed.

“Now isn’t a good time—“

“It’s never going to be a good time, that’s what I learned—“

“Dick, wait—“

“I love you, Bruce. I mean it. I _love_ you—“

“Clark is standing outside,” Bruce cut in.

At that, Dick shut up.

His ears burned hot when the hospital door slid open. Clark poked his head in, looking just as flushed. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes averted.

“Should I come back with some coffee?” Clark said. When silence answered him, he rubbed at his neck. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Yes, please,” Dick said, staring down at his fists in his lap.

“Black,” Bruce said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Okie-doke, I’ll head down the street,” Clark said. Before he could shut the door, Bruce spoke up.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Down_ the street,” Bruce said, voice firm.

Clark nodded in understanding and quietly shut the door. They both paused, listening to his footsteps disappear down the hall. Dick closed his eyes and exhaled. His face was still burning hot.

“You could have been a little nicer, he did save your life,” Dick said. With a bit of shame, he added, “You were a wreck when he showed up. I hardly did anything.”

“I don’t want you to save and protect me, Dick.”

Dick opened his mouth to argue. But then an arm stretched toward him, lying over the edge of the bed, the palm held upwards. Dick stared at it for a moment, his heart skipping.

Bruce was giving him permission.

Without even thinking, Dick’s hand moved towards his, taking it. How warm it was, when it had once been so cold. His eyes moved to meet Bruce’s, not sure what to expect, and yet pleasantly surprised to find that same, inviting warmth in those blues.

“I just want you here,” Bruce confessed.

“I can do that,” Dick said after a moment. 

Bruce calmly closed his eyes, his hand squeezing Dick’s tightly.

“You always have.”

**Author's Note:**

> Threw in Clark at the end to match both of your prompt ideas, I hope you liked it, haha. Thank you so much for reading. <3


End file.
